


just like in the movies

by bismuthBallistics



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-08
Updated: 2014-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-23 23:24:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1583201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bismuthBallistics/pseuds/bismuthBallistics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blue Pack, Blood Gulch Branch Alpha, is getting smaller every day. Sheila, Sister, Tex and now Church have all up and left. Luckily Caboose is in the habit of taking in strays. On the other hand, “Washington” is one of the sketchiest people Tucker’s ever laid eyes on, and he’s certainly not pack. Yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Tucker is casually getting ready for sleep in the most relaxing, stress-releasing way he knows how when he hears a crash outside the house.

It's a dark and stormy night, but it's not _the_ dark and stormy night he and Caboose have to schedule their nightly plans around, so he figures it's just a tree branch and not those dicks from the red house three doors down and across the street. Even if it's not, he'd like to see someone try and get in this house without getting torn apart. It's not the full moon, so he and Caboose can only half-shift, but half is enough to rip apart any burglar stupid enough to try breaking in. 

Before he died, Flowers spread the rumor that this was a halfway house for wounded-but-healing vets. They've kept that lie up and embellished it a little over the years they've lived here. Church was more than happy to play the part of a paranoid ex-soldier willing to shoot potential invaders before he ran off to god-knows-where. And the fact that there's another group of wolves down the street who are actually _run_ by a trigger-happy veteran helped a lot.

If it was a tree branch, it had to have hit the dumpster, because that was fucking loud. Might even have knocked some of the trash out. But whatever, it can wait until morning. And by that Tucker means that he will wait for morning to casually imply that he can get rid of the mess faster than Caboose can, and wait for Caboose to jump to prove him wrong.

So Tucker shrugs and continues jacking off. Whatever the noise was, it's probably not a problem.

* * *

 

The next morning Caboose is outside before Tucker even wakes up, and when Tucker does finally roll out of bed, yank on a T-shirt so the neighbors won't complain, and go outside, the branch is already gone and Caboose is puttering around in the shed with some blankets.

God. Dammit.

Caboose is always doing this, finding injured stray cats and dogs and one time a fucking squirrel, and hiding them in the shed until he can clumsily nurse them to health and/or convince them to love him. The second tactic has only succeeded once. They don't talk about Freckles, a bulldog who had definitely gotten beaten up in the past and who thought Caboose hung the moon, who was more than happy to attack anyone who looked at Caboose sideways. Most of the time the animals just fuck off when they're healthy and Church and Tucker have to write Caboose a fake good-bye card.

Caboose would turn them if he could, and then theoretically they'd heal, but animals can't take the bite and besides they've tried to be firm in the rule of _no pets Caboose because Sarge would think you're building a militia and then we'd all be screwed._ Even though Church ditched them for some unknown reason, leaving the one person who literally did not care if Caboose's pets died to keep his packmate stable.

Whatever.

Tucker turns from where he's standing in the threshold of the open sliding door. Caboose hasn't noticed him, too busy running into the shed with blankets while mumbling _oh boy oh boy oh boy_ to care that he's being watched. He does shut the door after him, and yeah, Tucker knows this drill. Caboose will pretend nothing's happening until his new pet is almost fine again and then ask if they can adopt it, and then it won't matter because the animal's disappeared.

How Tucker wound up actually linked with such a stupid packmate is beyond him. He slips back inside and flips on the TV, carefully not commenting when Caboose runs past with some bandaids, more sheets and a hot water bottle. In fact, the only time Tucker talks that whole afternoon is to remind Caboose that the bread is on the third shelf on the left side of the cupboard, where they left it after lunch yesterday, and that he should know that dogs and cats don't process bread like humans do. Caboose says shut up Tucker, he's making himself a peanut butter sandwich. Then Caboose realizes Tucker has banned him from making sandwiches because Caboose and knives are the worst combo, and amends that to he's making himself toast.

"Whatever, man." Tucker changes the channel from the worst soap opera in the world to college basketball and wonders how there is fuckall to do in this house.

Tucker manages to forget about Caboose's pet project (pun definitely intended) for about three days. On the third day, Tucker gets bored and sneaks over to spy on the Reds, who are grumbling about the necessity of having a pack branch on this street. They're totally right. Having pack bases here only happened because the Red Pack and the Blue Pack figured out about the same time that they were both considering the same town for a new branch, and then they had to start their new bases on the same street to keep an eye on each other.

The higher-up Alphas in the national Blue Pack are really morons.  They sent _Caboose_ to live in Blood Gulch, for Christ's sake. And now Flowers is dead and Sister just packed up and left one day, said she wanted to see more than she was seeing living in a house on a dead-end street in the middle of buttfuck nowhere, The Desert. Tucker misses her a lot more than he says. Sheila and Lopez ditched the whole damn street to abandon the packs and elope, and Tex just left one day, even if she wasn’t officially on the roster. Church disappeared about three months ago, leaving nothing but a note that said _Hey assholes, be back soon, don’t forget about me._ Tucker's pretty sure Church went to follow Tex, but that's pretty creepy so he just tries to hope Church isn't being a total moron. But yeah, now that all the people that were ever part of Blue Pack, Blood Gulch Branch Alpha, have up and left, they're down two men to the Red Pack. That's a tactical disadvantage or something, and no one in command has thought to fix it, or give them advice on how to deal with that.

Technically, Tucker never officially reported Church’s disappearance. He’s still hoping he won’t have to, but that looks less and less likely every day.

Spying on the Reds gets boring after a while, because all they do is talk all day, and their conversations are neither useful nor interesting. Tucker doesn't really care if the conversations are tactically useful, to tell the truth, because he's not going to use them, but it would be a change at least. If the Reds were to notice him, they'd probably chase him, and that at least would be interesting, but they don't, and so Tucker decides he's going to sit in the backyard and listen to music.

He's listening to an Avicii remix he illegally swiped from Youtube when Caboose leaves the shed and jumps at the sight of Tucker.

"Hello!" He says, and Tucker snickers, because Caboose jumping looks like the elephant that saw the mouse. "I did not see you!"

"Yeah, no duh." Tucker pauses his music and pulls his headphones down around his ears. "So what's in the shed?"

"In the shed?" Caboose's eyes dart sideways, and Tucker can feel the nervousness rolling off him like fog rolling off the sea. That's the thing about packmates. It's not as strong as a _bond_ , a real one, but your packmates are still your pack. When you’re close enough, you get each other. Tucker really hates that sometimes. "There is nothing in the shed. Why would you ask that? That is a silly question. We keep -- there are hoses in the shed! Yes, and rakes."

Tucker rolls his eyes and tries to look past Caboose, inside the shed. There’s a pile of what looks like gold and grey fur lying in a heap of blankets, because of course there is.  “Dude, I can feel you lying. We're not adopting another pet."

"But Tucker," Caboose whines, and Tucker can feel waves of petulant desire welling up inside him. God fucking damn who ever decided packmates were linked. "I will take care of this one! I will feed him, and we will be best friends, and he will be pack with us!"

"Pets can't be pack," Tucker reminds him automatically, and tries his best to send Caboose a sense of _this animal is not integral to my happiness_.

“This one can, Tucker! Please let him stay.” Caboose sends back the crushing feeling that this animal is not only integral to both of their happiness, but also to the continued wellbeing of the pack and the universe. He also makes his eyes water and his lip quiver a bit, like that’s going to change Tucker’s mind.

“Fucking Christ, Caboose,” Tucker groans. “Seriously?”

The look on Caboose’s face is almost hopeful. It’s the first time Tucker’s seen that particular look of _my life is the best life and everyone should be jealous_ since before Church left. He remembers it really well, because it’s what Caboose used to look like all the time. Tucker swallows hard.

“We’ll —” _The pet’s just going to run away anyway,_ Tucker reminds himself. It’s not that big a deal. “… _Fine._ Maybe. But I have to like, meet him and shit first. To make sure he’s not going to bite me or anything.”

“I promise this will not be like what happened with Freckles.” Caboose nods with big, solemn eyes, and then ruins the whole effect by shouting, “This is the best day ever! Of all time!” The solid wall of joy that emanates from Tucker’s packmate is almost enough to make Tucker not regret giving the Caboose equivalent of a promise about this pet.

Behind Caboose, the pile of fur groans and shifts to reveal what looks like a human hand, albeit a really hairy grey-ish gold-ish one with nails like fucking talons. “Wait, what the fuck?” Tucker says, and Caboose skips back into the shed, knocking a box of Hello Kitty bandaids over onto the floor.

“It will be a big surprise, Tucker!” Caboose says, and shuts the door. From inside the shed, Tucker can hear  more groans and a cheer of, “Hello, Mr. Washingtub! Now you are awake!”

Deciding it’s probably for the best if he doesn’t know what’s going on or who Mr. Washingtub is, Tucker pulls his headphones back on and heads inside to the sounds of deadmau5. He can feel dread and regret pooling in his stomach and mixing like a fucking cauldron of _Tucker’s a moron,_ and decides to ignore that in favor of an afternoon watching porn. He’s got a reputation to uphold, washingtub or no washingtub.

* * *

 

There’s screaming outside that night. It doesn’t last long.

Tucker stares at the ceiling and wonders what exactly Caboose has gotten them into this time.

* * *

 

The next afternoon around five-thirty is when Caboose sees fit to introduce Tucker to his new friend.

Tucker’s in the living room, dicking around with Garageband and using the MIDI keyboard he got a couple months ago with the extra from Sheila and Sister’s salary. Blue Pack Central pays for utilities and rent and food and crap, but the pack still gets some money for themselves. It seems to be on an auto-pay thing, cause Sheila’s been gone for a year and a half, and Kaikaina left about a year ago. Church’s money is still untouched.

“Tucker!” Caboose says, loudly enough to get through Tucker’s headphones, and Tucker slams his hand down on a high C in electric guitar in shock and curses.

“God _dammit,_ Caboose, what?” Shit. Now he’s starting to sound like Church. He pulls down his headphones and spins around in his chair.

Caboose is standing in the living room, beaming and maintaining an iron grip on the arm of a tall blond man. He’s wearing one of Caboose’s old T-shirts, from that gym Caboose used to work at before Blue Pack found him, and his arms are scarred with clawmarks.

Tucker can’t scent people when he’s full human, but he’s still like… 85% sure this guy is a wolf like them. Which means a) he could be hostile, or a new Red (Tucker’s not sure which is worse) or b) his pack could be looking for him. Shit.

“Caboose, what the fuck?” He gestures at Caboose in the universal manner of _what the fuck is wrong with you, you idiot_ , and tries to send him waves of _this was the worst idea._

“This is my new friend, Tucker!” Caboose beams back at him, bouncing on the balls of his feet, and Tucker feels unwillingly hit with the sensation of _this was the best idea._

“I’m Washington,” the guy next to Caboose mumbles, and Tucker snickers because dude. Duuuuude. That’s kind of awful. “I ran into your Dumpster a couple nights ago. Caboose helped me out.” He says the last sentence and winces, like the idea of Caboose’s help is not something he wants to think about. Tucker sympathizes.

Caboose nods enthusiastically and swings his arms, and by extension Washington’s arm, back and forth. “See, Tucker? I promise that he will not bite you. He is my friend.”

“Right,” Tucker says skeptically, because this is a nonpack wolf _in their house._ He remembers some stuff from basic training, thank you very much. “You got pack? Where’re you from?”

Washington’s eyes dart over him suspiciously and he mutters, “I’m an Omega. Last pack ended badly.” Yeah, if he’s telling the truth, Tucker’s not touching that one. Caboose is the one with a hardon for broken things.

Tucker doesn’t trust this guy at all; he’s about six feet tall and buff as hell even now when he’s human, and he turned up in the middle of the night by crashing, injured, into their Dumpster (which, by the way, sketchiest origin story ever). Now Washington moves like every step hurts, so what little help Caboose and enhanced wolf healing provided didn’t do jack shit against getting fucked up bad enough to pass out in someone else’s yard and spend three days asleep in a shed.

But whatever. Washington has a skittish look in his eyes and he looks irritated and uncomfortable with the way Caboose is clinging on to him. He’ll leave, just like everything else Caboose gravitates towards. Tucker will wait it out.

“Okay, then. Let’s eat,” Tucker decides, because fuck it. “It’s soup from a can tonight because I don’t feel like ordering in. So I hope you like grilled cheese. It’s sandwiches and Campbell’s tomato for dinner.”

Washington studies him for a minute, then nods. Caboose lets out a whoop and runs for the kitchen. He loves grilled cheese. “Caboose, get out the bread and don’t you fucking touch the can opener!” Tucker shouts to him, feeling his stomach swoop with a mixture of Caboose’s glee and his own exasperation. Jesus Christ.

* * *

 

Washington keeps fucking _cleaning_ , and Tucker hates it. Seriously. The house smells like a chemist’s idea of a lemon, which is to say, exactly like scented chemicals and nothing at all like a lemon. The guy’s been here a week, not counting the time he spent in the shed, and so far he’s spent Thursday washing and ironing the piles of clothes they’ve kind of left lying around for the past couple months, Friday cleaning all the sheets and then remaking the beds, and Saturday and Sunday sweeping and mopping the entire house. Monday and Tuesday were for yardwork, apparently, plus washing the clothes that Tucker and Caboose had dumped on the floor since Thursday. Monday and Tuesday were also for trying to teach them to use the washing machine (which, fuck off, Tucker knows how, he just doesn’t bother to). Now it’s Wednesday again and Washington is doing dishes.

The guy’s like a robot. It’s creeping Tucker out. So he swings himself up on the counter in the kitchen, next to Washington, and asks, “So where do you get off doing all our bitch work?” like he’s asking how Washington slept last night. (The answer to that, by the way: awful. He’s been staying in Sister’s old room, which is right next door to Tucker, and before Tucker passed out last night, he could hear Wash tossing and turning and pacing until like one in the morning. The walls aren’t super thick, something Church used to complain about all the time.)

Washington focuses his eyes dead ahead of him, refusing to look at Tucker while a muscle in his jaw works. “It was — very kind of Caboose to help me, and for you two to allow me to stay. But I’m not going to be a burden while I’m here. Also, your house is disgusting.”

“Fuck off, our house is awesome. But yeah, you’re not being a burden. You’re being kind of like — stop messing up everything, okay? I can’t find like half my shirts.”

“All your clothes are in the wash,” Washington says primly as water spatters off a plate and soaks into another of Caboose’s old shirts. “I’m not sure what half of them are crusted in, and I really don’t want to think about it too hard.”

Tucker rolls his eyes. Wuss. “Seriously, the house is freaking me out. It doesn’t even smell like us anymore. Stop cleaning.”

Washington puts down the mac-and-cheese-covered bowl he’s holding and turns off the water, turning to look at Tucker properly. His voice is stiff when he says, “You know, most people would actually be happy to have someone making sure their house isn’t a pigsty.”

“Yeah, but we’re not!” God, this guy is weird. Why couldn’t Caboose have imprinted on a less uptight sketchy injured werewolf who’d crashed in their backyard?

“I’m trying to help!” Washington snaps back, his face turning pink with frustration. He seizes the edge of the sink and digs his fingers in like he’s getting swept away by the tide and the kitchen counter is his only anchor. Washington’s nails extend, digging into the stainless steel of the sink, and his teeth elongate. Tucker tenses and leans forward, ready to spring, feeling his skin prickle, ready to go into half-shift if Washington loses it and proves himself to be the psycho Tucker thinks he might be.

It doesn’t happen. Washington’s head drops and he exhales, long and loud. Slowly, he peels his fingers off the sink, claws retracting into his fingertips. His arms tremble with the effort. Tucker doesn’t move, eyes narrowing at Washington’s hunched figure suspiciously.

Washington looks into the sink. Tucker follows his gaze and, yep, there are dents where his claws were. “I’ll… fix that.” Wash mutters. “I’m sorry.”

Tucker raises an eyebrow. _Right._ “Yeah. Okay. Look, if you’re done with your little tantrum,” he says, because he’s never really known when to stop poking the hornet’s nest, “I mean it. Whatever you’re trying to do, stop. The house smells weird and I can’t find any of my shit, and Caboose can’t find any of _his_ shit, so he keeps asking me and it’s driving me up the wall. You’re not helping.”

“Caboose probably saved my life,” Washington says unhappily, shaking his head. He picks up the bowl again and turns it around in his hands. “And you’re both letting me stay. I can’t — I need to repay that. I’m not okay with just letting that sit.”

 _Wow_ , okay. Jesus, this guy has some issues. And what the fuck even happened to him if Caboose _saved_ his _life?_ Whatever. It’s not really Tucker’s business anyway.

“Okay, yeah, you wanna help, but this is like, terminal overachiever-ness. So hang out. Go do — whatever Caboose is doing right now.” Tucker rolls his eyes and takes the bowl from Wash’s hands. “I think he’s playing basketball or something. He might be over at Reds’, you could pay off your life debt by helping him with that.” He plops the bowl down in the sink and scootches his way off the counter, feeling his way down the pack link to check on Caboose. Wow, he has to babysit _everyone_ in this house.

“Reds’?” Washington’s eyebrows furrow down at Tucker, and Tucker waves his hand in the air.

“Whatever. It’s not important, he’s outside playing basketball. We have a net on the garage. Go play one on one.” Tucker pushes Wash towards the door and _jesus_ , the guy is like a brick wall. Maybe Caboose will actually have some competition, if he’s not playing with a shrimpy shortbus or the most grumpy and least athletic wolf on the block. “Don’t let him win, asshole shouldn’t get that.“

Wash steps towards the door like Tucker’s pushing makes a difference, and then turns to go properly. He’s out of the kitchen and halfway to the back door when he stops. “I’ll fix the sink.” His voice is almost contrite, and Tucker rolls his eyes again. There’s a lot of that going on today.

“Dude, don’t worry about it. You know how much shit Caboose has broken? Hell, when Tex was here she smashed like four windows.“

Something flickers in Wash’s eyes, and Tucker groans internally. “Tex?” Wash asks carefully.

“No. No, dude, no. I am not doing the whole roommate backstory history of this house, get the fuck out. Go play basketball.” It’s fond but firm, and Tucker turns away and turns on the tap to fill the mac-and-cheese bowl in the hopes that maybe if the crusty goop covering the inside of the bowl soaks a while, it’ll disappear and Tucker will never have to deal with it again. He doesn’t turn around again, and after a few seconds, he hears Washington pad outside. Good. There has been too much emotions bullshit today for it to be only ten in the morning.

* * *

 

A couple weeks later, around dinnertime, the toaster oven goes out. Caboose _really_ likes sandwiches, so they’re having PB &J for dinner again. It’s not like, healthy or anything, but screw healthiness, really. It’s never done anything for Tucker in the past.

Tucker stares resentfully at the toaster oven, which is making a screechy clanging noise that Tucker has learned to hate over the past fifteen seconds, and wonders whether he can figure out how the oven works enough to make it very lightly toast about six pieces of bread.

Wash pokes his head in from the living room, where he and Caboose are working on the dolphin puzzle. Tucker was helping them until it was time for food, and he’s stolen one piece and stashed it in his pocket just in case they try and finish the whole thing without him. ”Is there a problem?” Wash says like he’s choosing each word delicately. This is wise of him because for someone who’s main hobby is computer music, Tucker really does not like noises that mean machines are not doing what they should be doing.

This wisdom does not disqualify Wash’s question from being stupid as hell.

“No,” Tucker says slowly, with as much sarcasm as he can muster. “There is no problem. I’m staring at a fucking toaster oven and listening to it scream at me while it refuses to toast, because it’s working perfectly. What the fuck do you think, Wash?”

Wash makes a bitchface at him that Tucker has seen many a time over the past few weeks, the one that means _your sarcasm and/or lack of enthusiasm is highly appreciated right now, Tucker._

“Toaster’s broken,” Tucker says, because they might as well start stating the obvious with how much is getting done right now.

“Do you want me to take it somewhere to get fixed tomorrow?” Washington offers. He’s still doing shit like that sometimes. Tucker would have tried to break him of that habit completely, but he doesn’t really care enough. It’s useful sometimes. Not right now, though.

“Nah.” Tucker gives up on making the toaster oven work through sheer angry willpower and just unplugs the damn thing, picking it up in his arms and marching into the living room, where Caboose is trying to make the pieces of the baby dolphin fit together. “Hey, Caboose.” Caboose looks up, and Tucker dumps the toaster unceremoniously into his lap. “The toaster isn’t working. Make it make toast again. We’re having raw bread for our sandwiches tonight, by the way.”

Caboose sticks out his lip in that way that is supposed to change Tucker’s mind, and Tucker feels a general welling-up of deep dissatisfaction with the idea of untoasted PB&J sandwiches. “Dude, don’t bitch at me, I can’t fucking toast anything with the toaster oven broken. The faster you fix it the sooner we have toast again.”

“The word toast is starting to lose its meaning for me,” Wash notes from the kitchen, and Tucker ignores him.

“Fine, Tucker.” Caboose pouts, and then cheers up when he looks back at the puzzle and sees how the baby dolphin’s head fits onto the rest of the body. “And-”

“Grape jelly, yeah, yeah,“ Tucker calls over his shoulder as he heads back into the kitchen. “Wash, spread peanut butter or something, I’m fucking hungry and I ain’t waiting longer than I have to.”

Wash pulls a knife out of the drawer and grabs the peanut butter off the shelf instantly. “Is that safe?” He says to Tucker as he pulls three pieces of bread out of the bag. Wash’s voice is hushed, like he thinks Caboose can’t hear him. Tucker knows better; Caboose can hear, he just doesn’t care enough to listen.

Wash’s question takes Tucker by surprise, though, and he looks up at Wash. “What, leaving him alone? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, dude, but we do that all the time.”

“No,” Wash says, pausing in his attempt to pull peanut butter out of the jar, still speaking quietly. “I mean — giving him the toaster. Caboose is kind of… clumsy, can he really fix it? It seems like kind of a delicate job.”

Tucker snorts and smoothly coats a piece of bread with grape jelly, his forearm brushing Wash’s. He doesn’t bother lowering his voice to match Wash’s. “Dude, Caboose loves machines. I don’t know whether he ever, like, worked with them or anything before he came here, but he can fix anything. He and Tex and Sheila — this was ages ago, back when they were actually here — they were working on building a bike together. It was pretty badass, too.” He puts the jelly-covered bread onto a plate and pulls another piece of bread out of the bag. It’s been a while since Tucker’s actually talked about Tex and Sheila. Thought about them, sure, but they haven’t really come up in conversation. “Tex took it when she left, though. Used to be in the garage.”

“He’s good with machines?” Wash sounds actually kind of surprised, and Tucker’s not sure how to feel about that. He’d probably be a bit surprised too, but — is it really that big of a shock?

“Yeah. We used to go to the junkyard once or twice a month to pick up some crap he could mess around with. He can build some pretty crazy shit.” Tucker snorts in recollection of one project about eight months back. “It’s mostly vehicles and stuff, but this one time he wanted to make like, a laser gun. Church had to talk him out of it ‘cause the government would probably show up and everything would go to shit.”

Wash doesn’t laugh. Instead he finishes his last slice of bread and wipes the knife on the edge of the peanut butter jar, then puts it in the sink and turns to face Tucker. “Used to?”

“Yeah.” Tucker doesn’t look at Wash, instead taking slices of jelly- and peanut-butter-bread and pressing them together. “We haven’t been in a couple months. Just sort of got out of the habit, I guess. And we’ve been pretty busy, I mean.” It’s true, too - Tucker has been… he’s been, um. He’s been writing music a bit more lately, so that’s taken up some of his time. And Caboose has been taking in a lot more strays than usual in the past couple months, so they’ve both been keeping themselves busy. _Yeah._

“Yeah!” Caboose says behind him, and Tucker jumps about a foot in the air and drops the sandwich he’s holding. Wash’s arm snaps out to grab it out of the air before it hits the ground, and Tucker tries to get his breathing down to a normal rate. _Jesus_ , Caboose is quiet. How the fuck does a guy who’s six-four and built like a brick house move that silently, and without Tucker even sensing his emotions?

“Caboose, what the fuck?” He snaps, and Caboose smirks back at him.

“I put the toaster in the garage and the dolphin in the picture,” he says. Caboose’s voice is solemn, but he’s wearing a shit-eating grin and Tucker can feel the triumph radiating off him. “I will finish them both tomorrow.”

Tucker crosses his eyes and sticks out his tongue, because sometimes you have to get on people’s level to communicate with them. “Whatever, dude,” He says, shoving his irritation and general idea of _you’re a douchebag_ at Caboose. “I guess that means you can’t have toast for breakfast tomorrow. Because the toaster will still be broken.”

The smile slides off Caboose’s face to be replaced with a sulky frown, and Tucker feels momentarily bad before Caboose turns back to Washington with a brand new cheerful grin and goes, “We used to go to the junkyard all the time before Church left! It was super fun! But now he is gone.” Caboose pauses and stops smiling for the second time in twenty seconds. This time his expression isn’t sulky, though, and Tucker feels a two-fold wave of sadness rip through him.

Wash’s eyes dart to Tucker, and Tucker looks back at him helplessly. He’s trying to get used to the idea that Church isn’t coming back, but he has no idea whether Caboose has considered it. “He’s probably off on an adventure,” Wash tries, “And he’ll bring you guys back souvenirs?”

Caboose nods slowly, and then faster. “Yes! That is right! And when he gets back he will tell us fun stories about where he went, and about the leprechauns he met there.” Caboose pauses again and draws out his next words like he’s still considering them even as he’s saying them. “I miss the junkyard, Tucker.”

“Me too, Caboose,” Tucker says, swallowing hard as he presses together the rest of the sandwiches. He’s not sure whether it’s true or he’s just saying it for Caboose’s sake. He can’t really think of why he would be.

Tucker drops the last sandwich onto a plate, and Caboose lights up all over again. Tucker wishes he could do that. “Dinnertime!” Caboose snatches two plates and drops them on the kitchen table, then grabs a cup out of the cupboard and fills it with milk. Wash smiles and grabs two beers out of the fridge as Tucker moves the last plate. Caboose wrinkles his nose and Tucker feels a tiny stirring of disapproval at the idea of beer with PB&Js when milk is clearly the better option, and they sit down to eat.

* * *

 

The next morning, Tucker is shaken awake to frantic babbling of, “Tucker, look outside, it’s like Christmas, you’re not looking Tucker, it’s like Santa came, it’s like Christmas, Tucker, look!” Tucker groans and stumbles out of bed and into boxers. He has just enough time to press his face against his window and see absolutely nothing in the front yard before Caboose drags him out of his room and downstairs.

Wash is standing by the sliding doors in the back, and for a second Tucker focuses on him and how the light comes through around him and makes Washington look like he has a halo, even if you can’t see any of his front. Then Tucker blinks blearily and his eyes refocus on the yard behind Washington.

Sitting on their patchy half-dead grass is the crappiest, rustiest, most busted-up junker of a car Tucker has ever seen. Looking at it now Tucker would be surprised if the wheels turned, let alone if the damn thing ran.

Washington looks at him, and Tucker raises an eyebrow. “Looks like Santa came early.” Wash grins as Caboose slides the door open and dashes outside to examine the car more closely.

“Early? It’s fucking August, man, early’s a bit of an understatement.”

“Yeah, well.” Washington digs his hands in his pockets. “I guess Santa’s a bit of an overachiever.”

Tucker grins back at him. “So you dragged that piece of shit back here last night all by yourself. How’d you find the junkyard?”

“I know how to use the internet, Tucker.” Wash rolls his eyes. “Google Maps, just like anybody else.” Outside, Caboose coos over a car so rusty Tucker can’t tell what its original color was, and Tucker thinks that he might actually miss Washington a bit once Wash decides to leave.


	2. Chapter 2

The doorbell rings around eleven-thirty a few days later and Tucker snarls at it like the noise is a small animal he can frighten into disappearing. He does _not_ want to get up. Wash has been trying to make him wake up earlier and ordinarily, Tucker would just be mildly resentful of this attempt to regulate his sleep schedule and deprive him of sweet, blissful unconciousness. But Junior’s going to visit in, like, a week and Tucker has to fuck up his sleep schedule so he becomes temporarily nocturnal. Sleeping late and staying up later are therefore more important than usual.

Wash still doesn’t know about Junior. (Tucker’s hoping Caboose will explain it in that messy, mixed up way of his so he doesn’t have to deal with it.) But Wash’s lack of knowledge about Tucker’s kid means that he doesn’t get _why_ it is Very Important that Tucker’s status as a creature of the night becomes even more literal than it already is, so Tucker’s been having to compensate for Washington waking him up early with midday naps on the couch. So many midday naps.

Tucker blinks his eyes shut and tucks his face back into his pillow, slowing his breathing and therefore his heart rate. Maybe whatever’s at the door will leave and he can go back to sleep. He’d been having a good dream. He doesn’t really remember much of it, except for sunlight and a little boy’s face.

The doorbell rings again, and Tucker growls into the couch. Caboose and Washington are out back; Caboose is trying to teach Wash how a car engine works. That means that Tucker is the one responsible for any and all door-getting. He really hates this fucker, who doesn’t seem to respect that eleven-thirty AM is actually a time for sleeping.

Tucker slides himself off the couch, flopping upright, and saunters towards the door. There’s a faint bit of curiousity emanating from Caboose down the pack link; he probably heard the doorbell. Maybe he should be the one _getting_ it, then. Whatever.

Tucker yanks the door open and his eyes immediately narrow. Standing on the doorstep, beaming, is Donut in booty shorts, and if Tucker’s Halloween costume radar is correct, that’s supposed to be a sexy mailman outfit. What. The. Fuck.

“Hello!” Donut chirps, holding out a box. “I’ve got a package with your name on it.”

Tucker blinks slowly at him, the only thoughts running through his mind a combination of _what_ and _why_ and _how is this my life_ , with a low hum of horror and a slight flavoring of appreciation to top it all off. He can feel a trickle of concern from Caboose, too, but Tucker ignores that in favor of Donut. In booty shorts.

“What?” Tucker says slowly, which doesn’t begin to communicate his utter confusion, but hopefully it’s a start.

“Mail delivery,” Donut nods enthusiastically. “Don’t worry, I handled your package personally. I took very good care of it!”

Tucker snickers, because how can he not with a line like that, but he’s still a little too stuck on the booty shorts to fully comprehend what Donut is telling him. Plus, his brain is still rebooting from sleep mode. “… Right.” He blinks at Donut again.

“Great! So if you could just sign here, then I can give you your package and I’ll be on my way.” Donut holds up a little clipboard and a pen, waggling his hips to readjust the weight of the box, and Tucker steps outsideto take the pen, frowning skeptically. Maybe this is a roleplay thing. Whatever. Donut’s relatively harmless.

_Click._

Tucker freezes, all his senses suddenly on high alert, because hunters are a _serious_ thing, and they’re not the only threats out there. From behind him, he hears Sarge chuckle. “Gotcha! Now, tell us what you know!” Tucker can feel the barrel of a shotgun pressing into his back. The Red’s fearless leader must have been hiding next to the door.

“Dude, what the fuck?” He glares at Donut, who shrugs apologetically. This does not really make Tucker feel any less freaked out, and certainly no less irritated with him. It’s not like Sarge playing with guns is really a _new_ thing, and Tucker’s never gotten hit with an actual bullet before (Sarge rarely has actual ammo anyway), but still. Having a shotgun to your back is still not a comforting sensation, and going from terror to mild irritation is not an instantaneous shift.

“If it makes you feel better, there’s some very nice embroidered hand towels in the box. I picked them out myself!” Tucker shakes his head, and Donut pouts. Caboose is poking more insistently at the link, wondering what’s going on, and Tucker tries to send him a sense of _not now_. It’s particularly easy because that’s a lot of what he’s feeling towards the Reds right now.

Sarge knocks him in the back with his gun, and Tucker stumbles forward, wondering who let this delusional psycho handle firearms. “What are you planning, Blue?”

“We’re not planning anything, dude, so fuck off,” Tucker snaps at him over his shoulder. This was not worth waking up. At all. It certainly wasn’t worth _embroidered hand towels._

“Don’t try lying to me! You’re torturing civilians in your basement, aren’t you?“ Sarge huffs, and Tucker takes another step away from him in case being senile is somehow contagious. “Something’s been screaming over here. We heard it again last night.”

Jesus. Christ. This is about fucking Wash, then. He’s been waking up with nightmares four nights out of seven, and last night was one of the worst Tucker’s ever seen. To be fair, he’s only known Wash about three weeks, which is not a huge sample pool. But yeah, last night Wash’s screaming was so bad Tucker’s still surprised they haven’t gotten angry calls from some of the other streets. It had even woken up Caboose, who normally sleeps through Wash’s little fits. Tucker groans. Why does he have to have the senile neighbor who jumps to conclusions faster than Church loses his temper?

“I don’t know where you got ideas about torture and shit, but it’s not like that.” He tries, and Sarge snorts in disbelief. Donut’s nodding, though, for whatever his support is worth. “We’ve got a friend staying over. He’s been having nightmares the past couple nights.”

“This one’s tough,” Sarge mumbles, and Tucker wonders who he’s talking to given that Donut’s too far away to hear. “We’ll have to take him back to base to get any information out of him.“

“Wait, what?” Tucker says, taking another step away from Sarge, who pumps his shotgun menacingly. Well, as menacingly as possible when you’re bordering on senior citizenship and your second home is Delusion, Crazytown.

Then something comes out of Tucker’s peripheral vision at what seems like the speed of light. It’s Washington, practically flying out of the backyard to knock Sarge down onto the ground, roaring in his face. What. The. Fuck.

“Wash, Wash, whoa!” Tucker’s teeth elongate and his claws extend. Hair prickles and ripples its way up his skin as his heart starts to speed up, beating a drumbeat of _danger danger danger._

Tucker puts a hand on Wash’s shoulder and tries to pull him off, but Wash swipes at him, pushing him away and scratching him in the process. Sarge uses the distraction to pin Wash to the lawn. As Wash tries to kick Sarge off, one of his arms lashes out to shove Tucker further away, and he scores a second, deeper set of clawmarks across Tucker’s leg. Tucker hisses in pain and shock, because _what the fuck, Wash?_ Wash and Sarge both growl at him, and Tucker dances away.

Tucker’s heart is pounding in his ears; he can’t hear much of anything and that might be the most terrifying thing about what’s going on, because you’re only as good as what you can react to. Intellectually he knows Sarge has never been a threat before, but that doesn’t change the fact that he and Washington are both buff as hell. It doesn’t change the fact that he, Tucker, is bleeding from Wash’s psycho fighting style. It doesn’t change the fact that Wash is scarred and scared from something Tucker doesn’t know about, and it doesn’t change that there are half-shifted wolves, none of whom are pack, clawing at each other on his territory.

Wash rolls over from where Sarge has him pinned, flipping the Reds’ leader onto the ground, and slams Sarge’s head and shoulders down. The thin layer of fur that’s sprouting on him is dark grey and gold, and the claws tearing at Sarge’s biceps are wickedly sharp, like a raptor’s beak.

Caboose jogs around the side of the house, already in half-shift, and Tucker knows it’s because his twitchiness and pain is spilling into the pack link. He tries to stopper it up, keep it from passing through. That stuff’s not for Caboose to feel, that’s his own shit. Caboose looks at Tucker, at Washington, at Donut, who’s looking conflicted and also terrified, and then back at Tucker. Tucker shrugs haphazardly. Caboose must feel the way Tucker’s trying frantically to think of a way to stop Washington killing someone on their front lawn without dying himself, because his eyes narrow. Tucker’s a little shocked at the flash of fire that runs down the pack link. Caboose nods once at Tucker, frowning, and jogs over to where Wash is doing his best to fuck up Sarge’s face beyond function or recognition. Tucker wants to shout at him to stop, but he’s having a little trouble making words. Does Caboose not _see_ the claw marks on Tucker’s leg? Does Tucker’s stupid fucking packmate _want_ to die?

But Caboose lets out a roar that has Sarge and Wash both freeze for a second, and that second is all it takes for Caboose to grab them by the collars and lift them apart. Holy _shit._ Tucker forgot Caboose could do that; they’ve never really needed him to. Caboose glares at the two of them and gives them a shake, almost like he’s a scolding parent. Then Caboose knocks them together and drops them on their asses, about six feet apart on the lawn. “Stop it,” He scowls at both of them, crossing his arms over his chest, which somehow serves to make him look even bigger than he already does.

“I…” Washington shakes his head. “What?”

“Stop it,” Caboose repeats, his voice dropping into petulance. “We do not kill our friends, Washington. That is Church’s number one rule!”

“But this is-” Wash’s head darts to Tucker and then back to Caboose. “This is a foreign pack. They’re a threat.”

Tucker rolls his eyes. “These are the Reds, man. Well, two of them. They live down the road. Welcome to the fucking neighborhood.”

“You have a new pack member?” Sarge demands, leaping to his feet, and Wash growls low in his throat at the sudden movement. “That’s unacceptable! Red Pack is now at a distinct disadvantage!”

“You have more people than us!” Tucker shouts suddenly, totally done with any and all Red Pack idiocy. He has been awake for maybe fifteen minutes and every single second has sucked. “You always have more people than us! You’re never at a disadvantage!”

Sarge pauses. “Hm. That’s—”

“Shut. The fuck. Up.” Tucker’s insides are starting to curl into a sour knot of resentment and exhaustion and fury and residual terror, and he wants nothing more than to lie down with his headphones and just listen to music for the rest of the day.

“I think you should go now,” Caboose says, and his tone is ostensibly friendly, but his teeth are still way longer than is safe and he’s still got his arms crossed over his chest in that way that makes him look bigger than a tank. “It was very nice of you to bring boxes! Now we can build a fort, yes. Goodbye!”

“But—” Sarge starts, and Caboose smiles widely at him, in a way that shows every pointy tooth in his mouth.

“Goodbye!” He singsongs again.

Donut nods and waves, beaming back at them, then grabbing Sarge by the arm and pulling him towards the street. Sarge mutters grumpily to himself all the way and snags his shotgun on the way out. “Enjoy the hand towels!” Donut calls. “It was nice talking to you, Tucker!”

“Right,” Tucker mumbles under his breath. And then, louder, because he really kind of owes it to the guy, “Thanks, Caboose.” It pricks at Tucker’s ego to say it, because he’s not supposed to need Caboose’s help. It’s his job to take care of the pack now, even if the pack is just Caboose, and this — this was just fucking pathetic. He totally fucking froze, and Caboose had to be his fucking bodyguard or something. Way to be the pack leader, Tucker.

“Yeah, I am pretty great,” Caboose hums, grinning back at him. “Do you want the Hello Kitty bandaids?” Caboose starts for the shed, where the bandaids have been sitting for the past three weeks, and Washington looks up in alarm. Caboose stops and looks at him.

“They hurt you?”

Something in Tucker snaps. “Yes, Wash, Donut’s fucking shorts were so crisp they shredded my leg. You fucking clawed me, asshole, what the hell?!” 

“I was trying to protect you, he had a gun!” Wash jumps to his feet and Tucker takes a very pointed step back. Washington’s eyebrows furrow. Good. Let him fucking feel guilty.

“Good job with that, Wash,” Tucker spits. “Claw me up in an attempt to protect me from the ammo-less geriatric, that’s cool.”

Caboose’s eyes dart between them. “Um, yeah, I thought we were done with the bit where we were doing the fighting,” He says, rocking back and forth between them and the shed. “So I would like to know whether Tucker needs bandaids?”

“How was I supposed to know he didn’t have bullets?!” Wash snaps back, his shoulders hunched in on himself. It doesn’t really make him look smaller, it just makes him look like Sarge managed to fuck up one of his arms. Which, maybe he did, Tucker can’t exactly see from where he’s standing. “I heard someone pumping a shotgun and then there were foreign wolves in our yard, I thought they were going to attack you!”

“And you didn’t stop to think that maybe tackling someone with a loaded gun was a bad idea?!” In the corner of Tucker’s eye, Caboose is looking seriously conflicted, and Tucker knows his anger is leaking into Caboose’s head. Why things like that can’t happen when it’s _convenient_ are beyond Tucker, but he does feel a little sorry for freaking out Caboose. The dude just stopped a fight and kicked out their neighbors for him.

Washington bristles. “I didn’t have time to think about that! I didn’t want you to get hurt!”

A lot of wind goes out of Tucker’s sails. With it said so plainly, he’s having a harder time resenting Wash, who tackled an Alpha werewolf armed with a shotgun to protect Tucker. At the same time, Tucker doesn’t want to just let Wash win. He’s made such a big deal out of this already. But more shouting, more stress and confusion leaking over from Caboose to amplify the lead ball of mixed emotions already weighing Tucker down, sounds like the opposite of appealing. God, he’s exhausted.

“Right,” Tucker says finally. “Okay. Whatever.” He starts for the front door, and Caboose trots after him, stopping about halfway between Tucker and Wash. “Look,” Tucker reaches for the doorknob, not looking at Washington. “I’m really — I’m gonna halfshift, take care of this leg bullshit, and then I’m gonna listen to some music. That okay with you? Good.” He slips in the door without waiting for any response Wash might have.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Tucker skulks around the house for the rest of the day, trying to avoid Wash. There’s still a dull ache in his thigh, even if half-shift took care of healing the actual gashes. Tucker also still has a slight resentment towards his unintentional housemate, but it’s tempered by Tucker having a feeling that he’s been a total ass. But then, if he avoids Wash, he won’t have to face his assholishness. So Tucker mostly stays in his room, listening to music and writing out different drumbeats on the looseleaf that’s scattered around his floor. He skips dinner, but he can still smell the chicken soup from upstairs.

Late that night, a shock of fear has Tucker bolt upright from where he’s been staring at the ceiling and wallowing in his own shitty mood. A few seconds later, Tucker hears padding footsteps in the hall. Then his door creaks open. “Tucker?” A quiet voice asks.

This happens sometimes, when they’ve watched the really fucked-up horror movies right before bed, or just because. Caboose gets nightmares, or sad dreams, or both; Tucker’s never really asked. It’s not his business and Caboose might not tell him anyway. The dude does have some pride, even if it manifests in weird ways sometimes.

Before, when Church was still here, Caboose went to him with his nightmares instead of Tucker. Church’s compassion went about as far as a glass of water, a cookie, and checking under the bed for monsters, but sometimes when the dreams were really bad he’d let Caboose talk for a while. When Church ditched, Tucker tried his old routine for the first few nights, but invariably he and Caboose would end up staring awkwardly at each other. Now Caboose just climbs into the other side of Tucker’s bed and passes out, their backs pressed together. Tucker stopped protesting pretty quick; it got Caboose to shut up, and having someone else around wasn’t that bad. Kind of nice, sometimes.

“Come on,” Tucker says, rolling away from the door to give Caboose some room. He makes sure to keep a tight grip on his half of the blankets, though.

The bed dips as Caboose slides in, and Tucker grumbles half-heartedly as gravity pulls him towards his much larger bedmate, who hums happily back at him. Tucker huffs out a breath and presses back against the warm muscle of Caboose’s back. It’s kind of weirdly comforting, in a way, and Tucker can already feel himself relaxing. His lips twist into a soft smile. Even to him, it feels like an improvement over the grouchy frown he’s been wearing for hours.

His smile disappears when Caboose says, “Washington was not happy today.”

“So?” Tucker mutters, his words half-lost in his pillow.

“Wash is our friend. Friends are supposed to not be happy when their friends are not happy.”

Tucker twists up his face. He really wants to sleep. After he and Wash shouted, Tucker couldn’t make himself nap all day, and he’s going to have to wake up in — Tucker checks the clock — three hours if he wants to keep adjusting his sleep schedule. And he _really_ doesn’t want to talk about Wash. So he just huffs, hoping Caboose will take that as an agreement and drop the subject.

“I made him s’mores poptarts earlier,” Caboose says, and Tucker groans into his pillow. “Because poptarts are made of happy, so they infect your stomach with happiness! And I did not burn them. Not even a little.”

Tucker makes a mental note to check the state of the toaster oven and doesn’t reply.

“So I think—”

“That’s a change,” Tucker mutters into his pillow, and Caboose makes a huffy, irritated noise. One side of Tucker’s mouth quirks up.

“So I think that you should also do something nice for Wash,” Caboose continues, and Tucker lifts his head up just so he can pointedly mash his face into his pillow. So what if Caboose can’t see it? “Because now Washington is one-half sad and one-half happy. So when you do your nice thing, Wash will be two halves happy. And two halves is even better than a whole happy!”

“… Right,” Tucker says, trying to send Caboose the idea of _maybe Wash will just magically become happy and Tucker won’t have to do anything._ The feeling Caboose sends back can be best summed up as _distinctly unimpressed._ “All right, whatever, fine. What should I do then, since you have all the ideas?”

Caboose pauses. Tucker smirks.

After a long second, Caboose says, “You could make him blueberry poptarts. Those are different from s’mores. They don’t have any marshmallow in them.”

“Ugh, never mind,” Tucker groans, yanking his half of the blanket back from Caboose, who has been subtly tugging on it. “I’ll figure it out myself, now shut up and let me sleep.”

“Okay, Tucker,” Caboose says contentedly. Tucker instantly regrets caving so easily. “Sweet dreams.”

“Yeah, you too.” Tucker says, and an idea pops into his head. “Hey, Caboose, if I do a nice thing for Wash, you have to do something for me.”

“We are going to run out of--”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Tucker rolls his eyes. He doesn’t really know, but he can guess. “Just explain about Junior visiting to him, okay?”

Tucker can practically see Caboose biting his lip in petulant curiousity. “Why won’t you do it?”

“Cause I have to figure out my nice thing.” Caboose stays silent, waiting for the second half of his reason, and Tucker rolls his eyes at the wall again. Stupid fucking link. “And because I don’t want to have to explain the shit about Annie and the coven and everything. Not yet, anyway.” He really doesn’t want to have that conversation ever, actually. That conversation is never fun.

“Okay, Tucker. Sweet dreams,” Caboose says instantly. God bless those few brain cells of Caboose’s that seem to be on duty right now.

“You too.” Tucker presses his foot into the back of Caboose’s calf as he falls into a doze, and Caboose hums cheerfully back at him.

* * *

 

Tucker mopes around the house for most of the next day. Sure, he promised Caboose he’d try and make up with Wash, but what do you do for someone you barely know? Washington has been around for nearly a month, and he’s still trying not to be a burden. Which would be great, because less shit for Tucker to do, except for how it means Wash has never asked for a single goddamn thing. Tucker doesn’t even know his favorite food, for Christ’s sake.

Maybe Caboose was onto something with the Poptarts idea.

After lunch, Tucker flops onto the couch to channelsurf. Caboose is rustling around in the kitchen with some paper. Wash is with him, the low hum of his voice invading Tucker’s ears and blocking out the sounds of infomercials. There’s the pop of a cap and Tucker can smell sharpie marker from the next room. Maybe they’re making a Best Friends poster.

Caboose did that once with Church. He didn’t take it with them when he left — it’s still folded up and lying on the windowsill in Church’s bedroom, covered in dust.

After three commercial breaks advertising the same inane product, Tucker gets bored. There’s a gnawing in the pit of his stomach that isn’t hunger, but it’s pulling him to the kitchen anyway. Tucker figures, _what the heck._ He could have some yogurt or something anyway.

Tucker slides into the kitchen. He pulls a yogurt cup out of the fridge off and pops the lid off onto the table, peeling open the part with the candy in it and stirring it in as he leans over where they’re drawing.

Caboose is making a picture of his pack, kindergarten style. There’s a small gold and white blob with a line sticking off it that’s been neatly labeled _Freckles._ Next to Freckles is a brown stick figure in a teal T-shirt with curly black lines coming out of the head. Tucker rubs a hand through his own hair. It’s not _that_ long. Caboose bites his lip as he outlines a light blue T-shirt next to where Tucker’s stick figure alter ego is flipping off nothing in particular. Church next, then.

Wash’s sharpie _skritch-skritch-_ scratches over his piece of paper, catching Tucker’s attention. His eyes flick over to where Washington is drawing and —holy _shit._

“Dude,” Tucker says slowly, eyes tracing over Wash’s picture to try and absorb it.

Wash’s hand twitches to a halt, and he says without looking up, “Yeah?”

On his paper in black outlines and brown shading, Wash has sketched the face of a girl with a pointy nose and only half a head of hair. Her mouth is twisted into a scowl, but there are tear tracks down her cheeks. Tucker’s not sure what he wants to say about the drawing, about the fear and hurt and betrayal in the girl’s eyes. Wash’s knuckles are tight around his pen.

“That is very good, Washington!” Caboose says, bracing his forearms on the table to lean over and look. “Are you drawing your pack too?”

“Yeah, who is she?” Tucker puts his yogurt cup down to bend over and look. She doesn’t look like Wash — she’s tiny and pixie-like where Wash is sturdy and square — but hey, Tucker’s seen weirder looking siblings.

“She’s — not anybody. Not anymore. She was in my old pack.” Wash keeps his gaze fixed firmly on the paper.

“Did you two hook up?” Tucker says what he and Caboose are both wondering, though Caboose has some _happily_ _ever after_ vibes to his ideas that don’t quite match up with the betrayal on the girl’s face or the strain in Wash’s voice.

“No.”

Caboose tilts his head and asks, “Did you want to?”

Wash’s forehead furrows in confusion, and he frowns down at the paper like the idea never crossed his mine. “No. She… wasn’t my type.” Tucker raises an eyebrow, because if this picture is accurate, the girl was pretty, and if it’s not, Wash is doing some pretty heavy romanticising. Wash bites his lip. “Relationships weren’t — encouraged, in the other pack. There weren’t any guys I would have wanted to be with, anyways.”

 _Oh._ “Ok, yeah, but hookups were a thing, right?” Tucker pushes. At this point, he’s almost more invested in getting Wash to say something, anything, about his mysterious backstory than in the potential that he banged this chick. Even if they’re talking hookups, this is the most he’s talked about it, ever. “Wait, was that the reason everything crashed and burned? Awkward mornings after? ‘Cause, dude, I know they suck but that’s kind of—”

“ _No._ ” There’s so much strain in Wash’s tone that it sounds like he’s trying to hold back a hurricane; without looking up at the two of them, he flips over the piece of paper and yanks another one out of the stack, grabs a new pen, dark purple this time, and starts sketching furiously. Tucker figures maybe he shouldn’t ask more questions about Wash’s old pack, in case Wash loses his shit and punches Tucker in the face the way he pretty clearly wants to.

“… O _kay_ then.” As Caboose loses interest and picks up the light blue Sharpie again, Tucker picks up his yogurt cup and stirs it. He looks around for the car keys and can’t see them, but it’s not too far a walk to one of the stores in town. At least he has an idea of what to do for Wash, now.

* * *

 

Tucker drops the plastic bag on the table next to Wash. It lies there, crinkling softly in the wind of the fan as Wash looks up at Tucker. Behind Wash, Caboose keeps drawing a stick figure in a green skirt, curled into his paper in deep concentration.

“I was kind of a dick,” Tucker says, his voice stilted. “I mean, you kind of were too. But you were trying to help and stuff. And I asked some shit earlier, you got pissed, and — I still don’t actually get what the issue is, but I’m sorry I pried. And, you know, for being a dick.”

Wash’s eyes flick down to the plastic bag, and he reaches for it slowly. He pulls out a sketchbook and a pack of colored pencils, the artist’s kind that come in huge packs.

“I didn’t tell you I like drawing.” Wash sounds — unguarded, almost. His voice shakes. It’s definitely a huge change from yesterday and earlier.

“You’ve totally done it before,” Tucker smirks at him. “Bow chicka bow wow. Seriously, though, you’re good. Lucky guess.”

Wash smiles, twirling one of the colored pencils Tucker got him in his fingers. Behind him, Caboose hums a random tune, and Tucker can feel his cheerful approval at the back of his mind like a warm sea breeze. It’s back to normal, then. That’s a relief.

“Okay, then. I gotta sleep now, though.” Tucker starts for the stairs up to his room, then freezes and turns back. “Did Caboose—”

Wash nods, his face going a bit stiff at the reminder. “He explained that Junior was visiting.” He pauses, his fingers twitching from the colored pencils to the sketchbook to the plastic bag still lying on the table. “And he explained why we’re going to have to stay up late next week.”

“And you’re cool with that?” Tucker says, hostility bleeding into his voice a little more than he’d like. They just got over the fighting bullshit. But if Wash isn’t okay with Junior, there are going to be issues. A lot of issues.

“I’m not sure how I feel.” Wash twists his fingers in the plastic shopping bag. “But you’ve clearly done this before, and nothing has happened. And it’s — not my place to tell you not to.” 

Tucker looks at him coldly, not appreciating the judge-y feeling Wash is practically radiating. Maybe they’ve made up, but Junior is still paramount. Wash shakes his head quickly. “And I mean — I’m a little worried about the vamp thing, but mostly I’m not — I mean, I don’t want to interrupt your time with your son. I can… leave that night, if you’d prefer.”

Tucker studies Wash uneasily, his eyes darting up and down Wash’s body for a hint of disapproval towards Junior. Wash shrugs at him, hands rustling the bag, and Tucker can feel his conflictedness seeping into Caboose’s head as Caboose answers it with comfort. Wash being okay with Junior is the most important thing, it’s always the most important thing, but he doesn’t want Wash to leave. Tucker can’t make Wash trust Junior, he knows that, but even beyond that he doesn’t want forcing the issue to be necessary. He wants them to get along. And if Wash’s problem really is not wanting to intrude, then. Well. When Tucker’s pictured Junior’s visit, he’s been picturing the four of them together, not just him and Junior and Caboose with Washington having fucked off to god-knows-where for the night.

“It’s fine.” Tucker runs his hand along the bannister of the stairs, following the movement with his eyes rather than looking at Wash. “You can stay, it’s fine.”

Happy relief spouts at the base of his neck, running down his spine and through his body, and Tucker’s eyes dart up. He means to catch Caboose’s eye, but Caboose is still bent working on pictures of his pack. Instead Tucker sees the wary smile on Wash’s face. “So… we’re cool, then?” Wash asks, shaping the words gingerly.

Tucker’s mouth twitches into a confident smirk. Fake it ’til you make it, right? Tex had taught him that one. “Dude, you’re not cool. But hey, maybe hanging around with the Tuckers’ll change that, am I right?”

Wash snorts a little and rolls his eyes, the expression on his face almost fond. “Thanks for the sketchbook, Tucker.”

“Yeah, well, I’m awesome.” Tucker grins back at him, a real smile rather than a smirk this time, and then saunters up the stairs to crash into well-deserved sleep.

 


End file.
